


Wreckage

by Thatkindghost



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Gen, Spear of Selene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 22:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12970044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindghost/pseuds/Thatkindghost
Summary: “You don’t like flying, do you Donald?”“I don’t like crashing.”





	Wreckage

Launchpad dips the plane suddenly and Donald feels his heart jump to his throat, shouts out something about wasting his life, and straps himself in- he holds his breath, waits for the earth-shattering impact, waits for oblivion. The plane doesn't crash, and Donald exhales, abashed, as his family stares at him in the wake of his outburst.

He laughs a bit, tries to play it off.

His hands are trembling so badly it’s hard to unbuckle himself.

* * *

“Please tell me crashing the plane isn’t gonna become a trend…”

“With launchpad? Of course it is.”

* * *

“I could do a barrel roll!” she suggests, hands smoothly confident with every move she makes, flipping switches and holding the yoke loosely with practiced ease.

Donald chuckles uneasily, “Maybe next time!” he’s fairly sure she’s joking, but with the mischievous twinkle in her eye, he doesn’t want to test the thought.

Despite all his nervous energy- and really, who could blame him? Getting into a flying metal deathtrap with his luck? But she had been so excited, and if anyone was going to be able to fly him around it would be his own sister- he’d gotten on the plane, ridden all the way up, and found himself pleasantly surprised that he hadn’t died in a fiery explosion yet.

He’s even more surprised when he feels himself start to relax. The death grip he has on his seat slowly begins to loosen, the tension in his shoulders drop, and he actually begins to take in the beauty of the scene- they’re flying high over Duckburg, and he can see almost the entire city, and out across the bay he can see St. Canards iconic Skyline. The sky is starting to streak with pink and purple and red, the clouds reflecting orange, and he wonders at the quiet beauty on the roof of the earth.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Della smiles softly, eyes gentle and serene.

Donald nods, wishing he’d taken up a camera with them- “You’re doing great.” He says.

It’s not her first flight of course- it’s not even her first with a passenger, she’d done it all at flight school, but it was her first time with him, after her graduation, after another few months of practice and getting used to her own plane. It was a special moment, and he wanted her to know how proud he was, how amazing all of her accomplishments were.

She doesn’t say anything, though he knows she appreciates his words.

She dips the plane slowly, turning it around, taking them home.

* * *

“Why do you love the sky so much, Del?”

“... When you get up there, so high that the city looks like it’s for ants, you can look towards the horizon- and it’s like you can see the future.”

* * *

“Uncle Donald,” Dewey places his fork down, ignores his pancakes, “I want to be a pilot.” He announces over breakfast one sunday morning.

Donald chokes on his coffee, sputters, and takes a moment to cough up a lung before he gets his bearings enough to respond, “A pilot?” He gasps out finally, “Couldn’t you pick something more- more safe?”

He can feel the bubbling mass of memories rising to the surface, like a living being hell bent on dragging him down into a spiral of grief and loss. He remembers Della, knows he sees her in each of her boys, wonders if this means something more than another one of Dewey's fleeting desires like the time he wanted to be a professional luchador or his interest in becoming a DJ (and begging Donald to invest in a fancy helmet because “All the best DJ’s look like robots!”) He wants to think it’s a passing thought, one Dewey hasn’t thought about carefully or won't remember even wanting to in a week's time- but there’s a look in Dewey's eye.

It’s a spark of fire, one he’s only ever seen a few time before- in Atlantis, as he put together the pieces of the puzzle and saved them all from drowning- and knows somewhere deep inside him that this is serious, and it scares him. He can see Della in his mind's eye, holding her piloting license in her hand and smiling into the camera he’s holding, he doesn’t see Della with her family, he doesn't see her with her sons.

Dewey’s been talking, laying out facts and reasons why he should be allowed to start learning how- even goes so far as to pull out an ancient-looking textbook he’d gotten from some thrift store on planes to drive his point home. Donald isn’t listening, just watching him and seeing the lines of his mother in each movement, and wonders if he could bear to watch his boys grow into her, if the grief would overtake him in the end. Seeing them grow up- knowing one day they’ll be older than she ever got to be.

If it had been anything else. Anything else. He’s so out of his depth here- why couldn’t Dewey like the ocean instead?

There’s a long silence, Dewey holds his breath, and Donald knows that he has no right to deny him the skies- can see even now the sunrise reflected in Dewey's eyes, can picture the controls bending to his will, can feel the want and the need and the promise in his words. He cannot keep him from the clouds, the only thing he could do was teach him how to do it safely (it always seemed to come down to that, in the end. He bowed under the guise of teaching them. Just like when he agreed to let them see Scrooge.)

He exhales, caves, “Okay.” He says, feeling like he’s digging a grave with the word alone.

Dewey's face contorts with dismay and he opens his beak to protest, “But Uncle Donald! I know i’d be good at it and I really-” He stops, face going blank as he processes his Uncle's words, “...Did you just say okay?”

“Yes, but you’re too young to start learning right now,” Donald explains, “In a good few years, if you still want to learn, I’ll do my best to get you a good instructor.”

“If i’m extra good and do lots of studying, how about i get my instructor now?” Donald shoots his a look and Dewey puts his hands up in surrender, “Okay okay! I won’t push my luck.”

Huey and Louie are slack jawed, “I… never thought he would say yes in a million years.” Huey mutters, flabbergasted.

“Maybe that’s not uncle donald.” Louie comments quietly, then raises his voice slightly, “Hey Uncle Donald, can I have a new phone?”

Donald frowns “Your phone right now is perfectly fine!”

“Same old Uncle Donald.” Huey grins.

“Can’t blame a dude for trying.” Louie shrugs, stabbing his pancake with his fork.

* * *

“You don’t like flying, do you Donald?”

“I don’t like crashing.”

* * *

The wreck was the worst one he’s ever been in, and he can remember the way the plane shook so hard it felt like it was coming apart under him. He remembers his buckle snapping, knows his luck is out to get him and being certain this was the end of the line, hopes against hope Della doesn’t blame herself-

The impact itself wasn’t too spectacular, though Donald wasn’t one to judge since he blacked out once his body hit the floor- he remembers bits and pieces. He remembers thick black smoke rolling through the cockpit. He remembers warm wetness on his face and doesn’t stop to consider what it is before he passes out again. He remembers the slender blue and black and gray of the spear they’d just managed to grab. He remembers fire and cold so deep his fingers turned numb.

He remembers waking up to the shattered wreckage of what was left of his family, in the hospital, alone except for Gladstone and Scrooge. Alone except for the sudden heap of responsibility left for him when Della didn’t make it out of the crash at all.

“Donald,” She had said, uncharacteristically using his full name, “I’m not sure that spear is good news.” transfixed as she was, staring at the smooth ivory.

He shrugs, flippant “It’s just another weird artifact for Uncle Scrooge to hang up, who cares?”

“It’s beautiful.” She says as if she’s agreeing to something, as if she’s in an entirely different conversation altogether, “I’m supposed to fly us home, but I don’t know if I feel okay. My head hurts.”

Donald frowned, “Can’t Scrooge fly, then?”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she repeats, she doesn’t look at him.

It’s beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> At the end, Scrooge told Donald Della died in the crash. He was lying. Thank you for reading!


End file.
